Mercy

CHAPTER ONE

The first one was a mercy killing.

She was dying a very, very slow death. Each day there was a new indignity, another inch of her once magnificent body destroyed by the debilitating disease. Poor poor Catherine. Seven years ago she had been a beautiful bride with a trim, hourglass figure men lusted after and women envied, but now her body was fat and grossly bloated, and her once perfect alabaster skin was blotchy and sallow.

There were times when her husband, John, didn't recognize her anymore. He would remember what she used to look like and then see with startling clarity what she had become. Those wonderful sparkling green eyes that had so captivated him when he'd first met her were now glazed and milky with too much painkillers.

The monster was taking its time killing her, and for him there wasn't a moment's respite.

He dreaded going home at night. He always stopped on Royal Street to purchase a two-pound box of Godiva chocolates first. It was a ritual he had started months ago to prove to her that he still loved her in spite of her appearance. He could have had the chocolates delivered daily to the house, of course, but the errand stretched out the time before he had to face her again. The next morning the almost empty gold box would be in the porcelain trash can next to the king-size canopy bed. He would pretend not to notice she'd gorged herself on the sweets, and so would she.

John no longer condemned her for her gluttony. The chocolates gave her pleasure, he supposed, and there was precious little of that in her bleak, tragic existence these days.

Some nights, after purchasing the chocolates, he would return to his office and work until fatigue overcame him and he'd be forced to go home. As he maneuvered his BMW convertible up St. Charles to the Garden District of New Orleans, he'd inevitably start shaking as if he were suffering from hypothermia, but he wouldn't actually become physically ill until he entered the black-and-white foyer of his house. Gripping the box of chocolates in his hand, he'd place his Gucci briefcase on the hall table and stand there in front of the gilded mirror for a minute or two taking deep, calming breaths. They never soothed him, but he repeated the habit anyway night after night. His harsh breathing would mingle with the ticking of the grandfather clock on the wall adjacent to the mirror. The tick-tick-tick would remind him of the timer on a bomb. A bomb that was inside his head and about to explode.

Calling himself a coward, he would make himself go upstairs. His shoulders would tense and his stomach would twist into knots as he slowly climbed the circular staircase, his legs feeling as though they were encased in cement socks. By the time he reached the end of the long hallway, perspiration would dot his brow and he would feel cold and clammy.

He'd wipe his forehead with his handkerchief, plaster a phony smile on his face, and open the door, trying with all his might to mentally brace himself for the foul stench hanging in the air. The room smelled of iron pills, and the thick vanilla-scented air freshener the maids insisted on spraying into the stagnant air only made the stench worse. Some nights it was so bad, he had to hurry out of the room on a false errand before she heard him gag. He would go to any length to keep her from knowing how repulsed he was.

Other nights his stomach could handle it. He'd close his eyes while he leaned down and kissed her forehead, then he'd move away while he talked to her. He'd stand by the treadmill he'd bought for her a year after they were married. He couldn't remember if she had ever turned it on. A stethoscope and two identical, voluminous, floral silk bathrobes hung on its handlebars now, and its wide black vinyl belt wore a coat of dust. The maids never seemed to remember to clean it. Sometimes, when he couldn't bear to look at Catherine, he'd turn and stare out the arched Palladian windows at the softly lit English garden behind the house, enclosed like all the other minuscule yards with a black wrought-iron fence.

The television would be blaring behind him. It was on twenty-four hours a day, turned to either the talk shows or the shopping network. She never thought to turn it down when he was talking to her, and he'd gotten to the point where he could ignore it. Although he'd learned to block the incessant chatter, he often found himself marveling over the deterioration of her brain. How could she watch such drivel hour after hour after hour? There had been a time, before the illness took over her life and her personality, when she had been an intellectual who could cut any adversary to the quick with one of her incredibly clever whiplash retorts. He remembered how she loved to debate politics-put a right-wing conservative at her impeccably appointed dinner table and there were guaranteed fireworks-but now all she wanted to talk about and worry about were her bowel functions. That-and food, of course. She was always eager to talk about her next meal.

He often thought back seven years to their wedding day and remembered how desperately he had wanted her. These days, he dreaded being in the same room with her-he slept in the guest quarters now-and the torment was like acid in his stomach, eating him alive.

Before she had taken to her bed out of necessity, she'd had the spacious suite decorated in pale green tones. The furniture was oversized Italian Renaissance, and there were statues of two favored Roman poets- Ovid and Virgil. The plaster busts squatted on white pedestals flanking the bay window. He had actually liked the room when the clever young interior designer had finished it, so much so that he'd hired her to redecorate his office, but now he despised the bedroom because it represented what was now missing in his life.

As much as he tried, he couldn't escape the constant reminders. A couple of weeks ago he'd met one of his partners at a trendy new bistro on Bienville for lunch, but as soon as he walked inside and saw the pale green walls, his stomach lurched and he had trouble catching his breath. For a few terror-filled minutes he was certain he was having a heart attack. He should have called 911 for help, but he didn't. Instead, he ran outside into the sunlight, taking deep, gasping breaths. The sun on his face helped, and he realized then that he was in the throes of a full-blown anxiety attack.

At times he was certain he was losing his mind.

Thank God for the support of his three closest friends. He met them for drinks every Friday afternoon to unwind, and how he lived for Fridays when he could unburden himself. They would listen and offer him solace and compassion.

What an ironic twist, that he should be the one out drinking with his buddies, while Catherine was the one wasting away in solitude. If the Fates were going to punish one of them for past sins, why her and not him? Catherine had always been the upstanding, morally superior one in the marriage. She had never broken a law in her life, had never even gotten a parking ticket, and she would have been stunned if she'd known all that John and his friends had done.

They called themselves the Sowing Club. Cameron, at thirty-four, was the oldest in the group. Dallas and John were both thirty-three, and Preston, whom they had nicknamed Pretty Boy because of his dark good looks, was the youngest at thirty-two. The four friends had gone to the same private school, and though they were in different classes, they had been drawn to each other because they had so much in common. They shared the same drive, the same goals, the same ambition. They also shared the same expensive tastes, and they didn't mind breaking the law to get what they wanted. They started down the criminal path in high school when they found out how easy it was to get away with petty larceny. They also discovered it wasn't very lucrative. On a lark, they committed their first felony when they were in college-robbery of a jewelry store in a nearby town-and they fenced the precious gems like pros. Then John, the most analytical in the group, decided the risks were too great for the return they were getting-even the best-laid plans could go wrong because of the elements of chance and surprise-and so they began committing more sophisticated white-collar crimes, using their education to foster connections.

Their first real windfall came from the Internet. Using their sleek laptops, they purchased worthless stocks under an alias, flooded the chat rooms with false data and rumors, and then, after the stocks had skyrocketed, sold their shares before the security

regulators discovered what was going on. The return on that little venture was over five thousand percent.

Every dollar they extorted or stole was put in the Sowing Club account in the Cayman Islands. By the time the four of them had finished graduate school and taken positions in New Orleans, they had collected over four million dollars.

And that only whetted their appetites.

During one of their gatherings, Cameron told the others that if a psychiatrist ever examined them, he would discover that they were all sociopaths. John disagreed. A sociopath didn't consider anyone else's needs or desires. They, on the contrary, were committed to the club and to the pact that they had made to do whatever they had to do to get what they wanted. Their goal

was eighty million dollars by the time the oldest turned forty. When Cameron celebrated his thirtieth birthday, they were already halfway there.

Nothing could stop them. Over the years, the bond between the friends had strengthened, and they would do anything, anything

at all, to protect the others.

While each of them brought his own special talents to the club, Cameron and Preston and Dallas knew that John was the mastermind, and that without him they would never have gotten this far. They couldn't afford to lose him, and they became increasingly alarmed over his deteriorating state of mind.

John was in trouble, but they didn't know how to help. And so they simply listened as he poured his heart out. The topic of his beloved wife would inevitably come up, and John would fill them in on the latest horrific developments. None of them had seen Catherine in years because of the illness. That was her choice, not theirs, for she wanted them to remember her the way she had been, not the way she was now. They sent gifts and cards, of course. John was like a brother to them, and while they were genuinely sympathetic about his wife's condition, they were much more concerned about him. In their collective opinion, she was, after all, a lost cause. He wasn't. And they could see what he couldn't, that he was headed for disaster. They knew he was having trouble concentrating while at work-a dangerous tendency given his occupation-and he was also drinking too much.

John was getting roaring drunk now. Preston had invited him and the others over to his new penthouse apartment to celebrate the success of their latest venture. They sat at the dining room table in plush upholstered chairs, surrounded by a panoramic view of the Mississippi. It was late, almost midnight, and they could see the lights twinkling outside in the inky darkness. Every few minutes the sound of a foghorn would hum mournfully in the background.

The noise made John melancholy. "How long have we been friends?" He slurred the question. "Does anybody remember?"

"About a million years," Cameron said as he reached for the bottle of Chivas.

Dallas snorted with laughter. "Man, it seems that long, doesn't it?"

"Since high school," Preston said, "when we started the Sowing Club." He turned to John. "You used to intimidate the hell out of me. You were always so smooth and self-assured. You were more polished than the teachers."

"What'd you think of me?" Cameron wanted to know.

"Nervous," Preston answered. "You were always… edgy. You know what I mean? You still are," he added.

Dallas nodded. "You've always been the cautious one in the group."

"The worrier," Preston said. "Whereas Dallas and I have always been more…"

"Daring," Dallas suggested. "I never would have been friends with any of you guys if John hadn't brought us together."

"I saw what you didn't," John said then. "Talent and greed."

"Here, here," Cameron said as he raised his glass in a mock salute to the others.

"I think I was just sixteen when we started the Sowing Club," Dallas said.

"You were still a virgin, weren't you?" Cameron asked.

"Hell, no. I lost my virginity by the time I was nine."

The exaggeration made them laugh. "Okay, so maybe I was a little older," Dallas said.

"God, we were cocky little shits back then, weren't we? Thinking we were so clever with our secret club," Preston said.

"We were clever," Cameron pointed out. "And lucky. Do you realize the stupid risks we took?"

"Whenever we wanted to get drunk, we'd call for a meeting of the club," Dallas said. "We're lucky we haven't turned into alcoholics."

"Who says we haven't?" Cameron asked, and then laughed again.

John held up his glass. "A toast to the club and to the tidy profit we just made, thanks to Preston's oh-so-sweet insider information."

"Here, here," Cameron said as he clinked his glass against the others. "I still can't figure out how you got that information, though."

"How do you think I got it?" Preston asked. "I got her drunk, fucked her brains out, and after she passed out, I went through her computer files. All in a night's work."

"You boinked her?" Cameron howled.

" 'Boinked'? Who uses that word these days?" Preston asked.

"I want to know how you got it up. I've seen the woman. She's a pig," Dallas said.

"Hey, I did what I had to do. I just kept thinking about the eight hundred thousand we'd make, and I…"

"What?" Cameron asked.

"I closed my eyes, okay? I don't think I can do it again, though. One of you guys will have to take over. It pretty much… sucked," he admitted with a grin over his pun.

Cameron emptied his glass and reached for the bottle. "Well, too bad. You're stuck with the job as long as the women go crazy over those bulging muscles and that movie-star face of yours."

"In five more years we'll all be set for life. We can walk away, disappear if we have to, do whatever we want. Don't lose sight of the goal," Dallas said.

John shook his head. "I don't think I can hold on five more years. I know I can't."

"Hey, you've got to keep it together," Cameron said. "We've got too much to lose if you fall apart on us now. You hear me? You're the brains of this outfit. We're just…"

He couldn't come up with the right word. Preston suggested, "Coconspirators?"

"We are that," Dallas said. "But we've all done our part. John's not the only one with brains. I'm the one who brought Monk in, remember?"

"Oh, for God's sake, this isn't the time for an ego tantrum," Preston muttered. "You don't need to tell us how much you do, Dallas. We all know how hard you work. As a matter of fact, that's all you do. You've got nothing outside of your job and the Sowing Club. When's the last time you took a day off or went shopping? I'm guessing never. You wear the same black or navy suit every day. You're still taking a brown bag for lunch-and I'll bet you even take the bag home to use again the next day. For that matter, when have you ever picked up a tab?"

"Are you saying I'm a cheapskate?" Dallas countered.

Before Preston could answer, Cameron interrupted. "Knock it off, you two. It doesn't matter which one of us is the smartest or works the hardest. We're all culpable. Do you know how many years we'd get if anyone ever found out what we've done?" Cameron asked.

"No one's going to find out anything." John was angry now. "They wouldn't know where to look. I made sure of that. There aren't any records except on my home computer disks, and no one's ever going to have access to those. There aren't any other records, no phone calls, no paper trail. Even if the police or the SEC gets curious, they wouldn't find a shred of evidence to pin on us. We're clean."

"Monk could lead the police to us." Cameron had never trusted the courier, or "hired help" as John called him, but they needed someone reliable, an implementor, and Monk fit the bill. He was every bit as greedy and corrupt as they were and had everything to lose if he didn't do what they wanted.

"He's worked for us long enough for you to start trusting him, Cameron," Preston said. "Besides, if he goes to the police, he'll take a much harder fall than we will."

"You got that right," John muttered. "Look, I know we said that we'd keep going until Cameron turned forty, but I'm telling you I can't last that long. Some days I think my mind… oh, hell, I don't know."

He got out of his chair and crossed to the window, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared at the lights. "Did I ever tell you guys how Catherine and I met? It was at the Contemporary Arts Center. We both wanted to buy the same painting, and somehow, during our heated argument, I fell in love. Man, the sparks between us… it was something to see. All these years later, and that spark's still there. Now she's dying and I can't do a damned thing to stop it."

Cameron glanced at Preston and Dallas, who both nodded, and then said, "We know how much you love Catherine."

"Don't make her a saint, John. She isn't perfect," Dallas said.

"Jeez, that was cold," Preston muttered.

"It's okay. I know Catherine isn't perfect. She has her quirks, just like we do. Who isn't a little compulsive about something?" he said. "It's just that she worries about being without, and so she has to have two of everything. She has two television sets, identical ones, sitting side by side on the table by her bed. She has one of them on day and night, but she worries it might break, so she makes sure she has a backup. She does the same thing when she's ordering something from a store or a catalog. Always buys two, but what's the harm in that?" he asked. "She isn't hurting anyone, and she has so little joy these days. She puts up with me because she loves me." Bowing his head he whispered, "She's my entire life."

"Yes, we know," Cameron agreed. "But we're concerned about you."

John whirled around to confront them. His face was twisted with anger. "Hell, you're worried about yourselves. You think I'll do something to screw it all up, don't you?"

"The thought crossed our minds," Cameron admitted.

"John, we can't afford for you to go crazy on us," Preston said.

"I'm not going to go crazy."

"Yeah, okay," Dallas said. "Here's the way we're gonna play it. John will tell us if he needs help. Isn't that right?"

John nodded. "Yeah, sure."

His friends let the subject drop and spent the rest of the evening plotting their next project.

They continued to meet on Friday afternoons, but they kept silent about John's mounting depression. None of them knew what could be done about it, anyway.

Three months passed without a mention of Catherine. Then John broke down. He couldn't bear to watch Catherine suffer anymore, and he told them he was worried about money all the time now, which he thought was ludicrous given the fact that they had millions tucked away in the Sowing Club account. Millions they couldn't touch for five more years. He told them that insurance covered a pittance of the treatment Catherine needed, but not nearly enough, and if his wife continued to linger, her trust would eventually be gone and he would be financially ruined. Unless, of course, the others agreed to let him dip into the Sowing Club account.

Cameron protested. "You all know how I'm hurting for money, what with my divorce pending and all, but if we make a withdrawal now, without closing out the whole account, we could create a paper trail, and the IRS-"

John cut him off. "I know. It's too risky. Look, I shouldn't have brought it up. I'll figure out something," he said.

The following Friday afternoon, they met at their favorite bar, Dooley's. While it thundered and poured outside, and Jimmy Buffett sang about Margaritaville over the speakers, John leaned across the table and whispered his dark wish aloud.

He wanted to kill himself and end the torment.

His friends were appalled and outraged. They admonished him for even thinking such crazy thoughts, but it didn't take them long to see that their rebukes were not helping. On the contrary, they realized they were adding to his misery and his depression. Their harsh words quickly turned into solicitous ones. What could they do to help him?

Surely there was something.

They continued to talk, huddled around a table in the corner of the bar, putting their heads together to come up with a viable solution to their friend's untenable situation. Later, near midnight, after hours and hours of discussion, one of them was bold enough to suggest what all of them were thinking. The poor woman was already under a death sentence. If anyone should die, it should be his pathetic, long-suffering wife.

If only.

Later none of them would be able to remember who had voiced the proposal to kill her.

For the next three Friday afternoons, they discussed the possibility, but once the debate had ended and the vote had been taken, there was no going back. The decision, when it was finally made, was unanimous. There were no second thoughts, no nagging doubts on the part of any of the members of the club.

It was as absolute as dried blood on white carpet.

They didn't consider themselves monsters or admit that what they were doing was motivated by greed. No, they were simply white-collar overachievers who worked hard and played harder. They were risk-takers, feared by outsiders because of the power they wielded. They were known as real ball breakers-a term they considered flattery. Yet, despite their arrogance and their audacity, none of them had the courage to call the plan what it really was-murder-and so they referred to it as "the event."

They did have balls of steel, considering that Dooley's was located just half a block away from the Eighth District station of the New Orleans Police Department. While they planned the felony, they were surrounded by detectives and policemen. A couple of Federal Bureau agents assigned to PID occasionally stopped by as well, as did the up-and-coming attorneys hoping to foster connections. The police and the courthouse lawyers considered Dooley's their personal watering hole, but then, so did the overworked and underappreciated interns and residents from both Charity Hospital and LSU. The groups rarely mingled.

The Sowing Club didn't take sides. They sat in the corner. Everyone knew who they were, though, and until the serious drinking got under way, they were constantly interrupted by greetings from coworkers and ass-kissers.

Oh, yes, they had gall and nerve, for in the midst of New Orleans's finest, they calmly talked about the mercy killing.

The discussion would never have gotten this far if they hadn't already had the connection they needed. Monk had killed for money, and he certainly wouldn't have any qualms about killing again. Dallas was the first to see the potential and to take advantage by saving Monk from the judicial system. Monk understood the debt he would have to repay. He promised Dallas that he would do anything, anything at all, as long as the risks were manageable and the price was right. Sentiment aside, their killer was, above all else, a businessman.

They all met to discuss the terms at one of Monk's favorite hangouts, Frankie's, which was a dilapidated gray shack just off Interstate 10 on the other side of Metairie. The bar smelled of tobacco, peanut shells that customers discarded on the warped floorboards, and spoiled fish. Monk swore that Frankie's had the best fried shrimp in the south.

He was late and made no apology for his tardiness. He took his seat, folded his hands on the tabletop, and immediately outlined his conditions before accepting their money. Monk was an educated man, which was one of the main reasons Dallas had saved him from a lethal injection. They wanted a smart man, and he fit the bill. He was also quite distinguished looking, very refined and shockingly polished considering he was a professional criminal. Until he was arrested for murder, Monk's sheet had been clean. After he and Dallas had struck the deal, he did a little bragging about his extensive resume, which included arson, blackmail, extortion, and murder. The police didn't know about his background, of course, but they had enough evidence to convict on the murder-evidence that was deliberately misplaced.

The very first time the others met Monk was at Dallas's apartment, and he made an indelible impression upon them. They had expected to meet a thug, but instead they met a man they could almost imagine as one of them, a professional with high standards- until they looked closely into his eyes. They were as cold and as lifeless as an eel's. If it was true that the eyes were mirrors to the soul, then Monk had already given his to the devil.

After ordering a beer, he leaned back in the captain's chair and calmly demanded double the price Dallas had offered.

"You've got to be kidding," Preston said. "That's extortion."

"No, it's murder," Monk countered. "Bigger risk means bigger money."

"It isn't… murder," Cameron said. "This is a special case."

"What's so special about it?" Monk asked. "You want me to kill John's wife, don't you? Or was I mistaken?"

"No, but…"

"But what, Cameron? Does it bother you that I'm being blunt? I could use another word for murder if you want, but that won't change what you're hiring me to do." He shrugged and then said, "I want more money."

"We've already made you a very rich man," John pointed out.

"Yes, you have."

"Listen, asshole, we agreed on a price," Preston shouted, then looked over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard.

"Yes, we did," Monk replied. He seemed totally unaffected by the burst of anger. "But you didn't explain what you wanted done, did you? Imagine my surprise when I talked to Dallas and found out the details."

"What did Dallas tell you?" Cameron wanted to know.

"That there was a problem you all wanted eliminated. Now that I know what the problem is, I'm doubling the price. I think that's quite reasonable. The risk is more substantial."

Silence followed the statement. Then Cameron said, "I'm tapped out. Where are we going to come up with the rest of the money?"

"That's my problem, not yours," John said. He turned to Monk then. "I'll even throw in an additional ten thousand if you'll agree to wait until after the will is read to get paid."

Monk tilted his head. "An extra ten thousand. Sure, I'll wait. I know where to find you. Now give me the details. I know who you want killed, so why don't you tell me when, where, and how much you want her to suffer."

John was shaken. He cleared his throat, gulped down half a glass of beer, and whispered, "Oh, God, no. I don't want her to suffer. She's been suffering."

"She's terminally ill," Cameron explained.

John nodded. "There isn't any hope for her. I can't stand to see her in so much pain. It's… constant,never ending. I…" He was too emotionally distraught to continue.

Cameron quickly took over. "When John started talking crazy about killing himself, we knew we had to do something to help."

Monk motioned him to be quiet as the waitress walked toward them. She placed another round of beers on the table and told them she'd be back in a minute to take their dinner orders.

As soon as she walked away, Monk said, "Look, John. I didn't realize your wife was sick. I guess I sounded a little cold. Sorry about that."

"Sorry enough to cut your price down?" Preston asked.

"No, I'm not that sorry."

"So are you going to do it, or what?" John asked

impatiently.

"It's intriguing," Monk said. "I would actually be doing a good deed, wouldn't I?"

He asked for the particulars about the wife's unfortunate condition and also wanted to know about the living situation inside the house. As John was answering his questions, Monk leaned forward and spread his hands in front of him. His fingernails were perfectly manicured, the pads smooth, callus free. He stared straight ahead, seemingly lost in thought, as if he were constructing the details of the job in his head.

After John finished describing the floor plan, the alarm system, and the maids' daily routine, he tensely waited for more questions.

"So, the maid goes home each night. What about the housekeeper?"

"Rosa… Rosa Vincetti is her name," John said. "She stays until ten every night, except for Mondays, when I'm usually home so she can leave by six."

"Any friends or relatives I need to be concerned about?'

John shook his head. "Catherine cut her friends off years ago. She doesn't like visitors. She's embarrassed about her… condition."

"What about relatives?"

"There's one uncle and a couple of cousins, but she's all but severed ties with them. Says they're white trash. The uncle calls once a month. She tries to be polite, but she doesn't stay on the phone long. It tires her."

"Does this uncle ever stop by uninvited?"

"No. She hasn't seen him in years. You don't have to worry about him."

"Then I won't," Monk said smoothly.

"I don't want her to suffer… I mean, when you actually… is that possible?"

"Of course it is," Monk said. "I have a compassionate nature. I'm not a monster. Believe it or not, I have strong values and unbendable ethics," he boasted, and none of the four dared laugh at the contradiction. A hired killer with ethics? Insane, yes, yet they all sagely nodded agreement. If Monk had told them he could walk on water, they would have pretended to believe him.

When Monk finished discussing his virtues and got down to the business at hand, he told John he didn't believe in cruel or unnecessary pain, and even though he'd promised that there would be little suffering during "the event," he suggested, just as a precaution, that John increase the amount of painkillers his wife took before bed. Nothing else was to change. John was to set the alarm as he did every night before retiring, and then he was to go to his room and stay there. Monk guaranteed, with an assurance they all found obscenely comforting, that she would be dead by morning.

He was a man of his word. He killed her during the night. How he had gotten inside the house and out again without setting off the alarm was beyond John's comprehension. There were audio and motion detectors inside and video cameras surveying the outside, but the ethereal Monk had entered the premises without being seen or heard, and had quickly and efficiently dispatched the long-suffering woman into oblivion.

To prove that he had been there, he placed a rose on the pillow next to her, just as he had told John he would do, to erase any doubt as to who should receive credit and final payment for the kill. John removed the rose before he called for help.

John agreed to an autopsy so there wouldn't be any questions raised later. The pathology report indicated she had choked to death on chocolates. A clump of chocolate-covered caramel the size of a jawbreaker was found lodged in her esophagus. There were bruises around her neck, but it was assumed that they were self-inflicted as she attempted to dislodge the obstacle while she was suffocating. The death was ruled accidental; the file was officially closed, and the body was released for burial.

Because of her considerable bulk, it would have taken at least eight strong pallbearers to carry her coffin, which the funeral director delicately explained would have to be specially built. With a rather embarrassed and certainly pained expression, he told the widower in so many words that it simply wouldn't be possible to squeeze all of the deceased into one of their ready-made, polished mahogany, satin-lined coffins. He suggested that it would be more prudent to cremate the body, and the husband readily agreed.

The service was a private affair attended by a handful of John's relatives and a few close friends. Cameron came, but Preston and Dallas begged off. Catherine's housekeeper was there, and John could hear Rosa's wailing as he left the church. He saw her in the vestibule, clutching her rosary beads and glaring at him with her damn-you-to-hell-for-your-sins stare. John dismissed the nearly hysterical woman without a backward glance.

Two mourners from Catherine's side of the family also came, but they walked behind the others as the pitifully small group marched in procession toward the mausoleum. John kept glancing over his shoulder at the man and woman. He had the distinct feeling they were staring at him, but when he realized how nervous they were making him, he turned his back on them and bowed his head.

The heavens wept for Catherine and sang her eulogy. While the minister prayed over her, lightning cracked and snapped, and thunder bellowed. The torrential downpour didn't let up until the ash-filled urn was locked inside the vault.

Catherine was finally at peace, and her husband's torment was over. His friends expected him to grieve but at the same time feel relief that his wife wasn't suffering any longer. He had loved the woman with all his heart, hadn't he?

Despite others urging him to take some time off, the widower went back to work the day after the funeral. He insisted he needed to keep busy in order to take his mind off his anguish.

It was a bright, blue, cloudless day as he drove down St. Charles toward his office. The sun warmed his shoulders. The scent of honeysuckle hung heavily in the humid air. His favorite Mellencamp CD, Hurts So Good, blared through the speakers.

He pulled into his usual spot in the parking garage and took the elevator up to his suite of offices. When he opened the door bearing his name, his secretary hurried forward to offer her heartfelt condolences. He remarked to her that his wife would have loved such a glorious summer day, and she later told the others in the office that there had been tears in his eyes when he'd said Catherine's name.

As the days passed, he appeared to be battling his depression. During most of his hours at work he seemed withdrawn and distant, going through his routine as if in a daze. Other times, he seemed shockingly cheerful. His erratic behavior was a concern to his staff, but they dismissed it as the understandable remnants of his grief. The best thing they could give him now was space. John was not one to discuss his feelings, and they all knew what a private person he was.

What they didn't know was that John was also quite the busy boy.

Within a couple of weeks after "the event," he had thrown out every painful reminder of his wife, including the Italian Renaissance furniture she had so loved. He dismissed her loyal servants and hired a housekeeper who hadn't known Catherine. He had the two-story house painted from top to bottom in bright, bold colors, and he had the garden re-landscaped. He added the fountain he'd wanted, the one with the cherub spouting water out of its mouth. He'd wanted the fountain for months, but when he'd shown Catherine a picture of it in a catalog, she had decreed it too gaudy.

Everything was finished to his satisfaction. He'd chosen contemporary furniture because of the sleek, uncluttered lines. When it was delivered from the warehouse where he'd been storing it, the placement of each piece was personally overseen by the interior designer.

Then, when the last delivery truck had pulled away-from the drive-way, he and the oh-so-clever, beautiful young designer christened the new bed. They screwed the night away in the black-lacquered four-poster-just like he'd been promising her for over a year now.